Sermon at St. Mary’s Church Parish Church, West Dean – 6th Sunday after Trinity – Sunday 12th July 2026
Isaiah 55:10-13; Romans 8:1-11;
Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23
May I speak in the Name
of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit and may these words of yours be a joy and
blessing to all who hear them. Amen
I was delighted when I
realised that the Gospel Reading today was one which Liz and I have recently
finished studying, at some great length, in our local house group. The in-depth study which we did led me to realise
there was so much more to this parable, which I have heard so many times
before, going back as far as school assemblies in the 1960s! Today, I can only really scratch the surface
of some of the revelations which I discovered during our study but will try and
do so, as much as I can, in the short time available this morning. The biggest
revelation for me was that there was never any question of the seed that is
being sown in the parable being bad, only the way in which it is received. For Liz, one of the revelations was that we
needed to buy a second composter!
Joking aside, the three readings today give
us one beautiful image: God is always sowing life. He is never stingy with his
grace. Like the rain in Isaiah, like the Spirit in Romans, like the Sower in
the Gospel, God keeps giving, keeps calling, keeps planting, even when the
results seem uncertain.
Isaiah tells
us that just as rain and snow fall upon the earth and do not return without
making it fruitful, so God's word never returns to him empty. It always
accomplishes his purpose. Sometimes we expect God's word to work instantly, but
God often works quietly, patiently, beneath the surface. Seeds take time to
germinate, and so too does Faith. Often, we use the phrase “Rome wasn’t built
in a day”; it grew over a period of time and so too does our Faith. In fact, it never stops growing. Just as my
studies in astronomy often lead me to more questions than answers about the
cosmos, so too does our study of scripture.
But, back to
the Sower. In our Gospel message, he
scatters seed everywhere. From a human perspective, it almost seems wasteful.
Seed falls on the path, among rocks, into thorns, and only some on good soil.
But this is precisely how God loves. He does not ration his grace to those who
seem most deserving. He offers his word to everyone.
Earlier I
stated, quite categorically, that the seed being sown in the parable was not
bad. But, how do we know
whether the seed is good seed?
The answer
is surprisingly simple. The seed in the parable is the Word of God, and God's
word always bears the marks of its divine origin. Good seed draws us toward
Christ. It deepens faith, awakens hope, and enlarges love. It leads to
forgiveness rather than resentment, humility rather than pride, generosity
rather than selfishness. Good seed may challenge us, even unsettle us, but it
never leads us away from God or diminishes the dignity of others. As Paul
reminds us in Romans, the Spirit gives life and peace. If what we receive draws
us toward the life of the Spirit, we can trust that it is good seed. Anything in our lives, any seeds which are
sown which do not produce these characteristics is bad seed, or weeds, which
Jesus deals with in another parable. We
should, therefore, always be on our guard against those people and institutions
which would seek to sow weeds into our lives. We need to pray for discernment.
But perhaps
the more searching question is: How
do we know whether we are good soil?
The parable
is not about labelling ourselves once and for all, as I once thought. The
condition of the soil can change. A hardened path can be broken open. Rocky
ground can be cleared. Thorns can be pulled out. Good soil is not perfect soil;
it is receptive soil.
We become
good soil when we are willing to listen. Jesus ends the parable by saying,
"Let anyone with ears listen." Listening is more than hearing. It
means allowing God's word to sink beneath the surface of our lives. It means praying
with Scripture instead of merely reading it. It means letting God's word
question us before we question it. How
is our spiritual life? What areas of our life are susceptible to weeds, or
stones, or dryness? What do we need to do to prepare the ground. Do we need a new composter?
Good soil is
also honest soil. We need to recognize the rocks that prevent deep roots—old
wounds, fears, pride, or habits that keep us from trusting God. We identify the
thorns that choke growth—the anxieties, distractions, ambitions, and endless
busyness that crowd out prayer and charity. Every examination of conscience is,
in a sense, an examination of the soil.
This is
where Paul's words in Romans become such good news. Left to ourselves, we
cannot make ourselves fruitful. But "the Spirit of God dwells in
you." The same Spirit who raised Jesus from the dead is at work within us,
cultivating the soil of our hearts. Christianity is not simply about trying
harder; it is about allowing the Holy Spirit to transform us from within.
That is why
the readings this morning fit together so beautifully. Isaiah reminds us that
God's word is effective. The Gospel tells us that God's word is generously
sown. Romans tells us that God's Spirit enables us to receive that word and
bear fruit.
Perhaps the
greatest comfort in this parable is that Jesus never tells us to judge someone
else's soil. He invites each of us to tend our own heart. Every day, God
scatters fresh seed. Every day, the Spirit can soften what has become hard,
remove what has become crowded, and deepen what has become shallow.
The measure
of good soil is not how impressive we appear, but whether God's word is
producing fruit in us: greater patience, deeper compassion, stronger faith,
more generous love, and a growing resemblance to Christ.
May we ask
today for two graces: the wisdom to recognize the good seed that God
continually sows through his Word, the sacraments, and the witness of faithful
people; and the humility to let the Holy Spirit prepare our hearts to receive
it.
Then
Isaiah's promise will become our own: the word God plants within us will not
return empty, but will bear fruit—thirty, sixty, and a hundredfold—for the life
of the world.
Amen MFB/236/10072026
Sermon at Pepperbox Hill, Whiteparish, Wiltshire – Ascension Day - Thursday 14th May 2026
Acts 1:4-11
Our passage of scripture, this morning, is
well familiar to most of us and I have often wondered what reaction I might
have had in witnessing this event, as the Apostles did. The narrative presents
a powerful moment of transition, hope, and promise. Jesus, after His
resurrection, has gathered together His disciples and prepared them for His
departure. Although the disciples are understandably uncertain and still
focused on earthly expectations, Jesus redirects their attention toward God’s
greater plan. Rather than remaining physically with them, He promises that they
will receive the Holy Spirit, who will guide, strengthen, and empower them. The
Ascension is therefore not a moment of abandonment, but one of hope.
At first glance, the disciples must have felt grief
and loss as they watched Jesus ascend into heaven. For years they had walked
beside Him, listened to His teaching, and relied on His presence. They had been
his apprentices, often getting things wrong but with the Master always there to
correct them and help them out. Now they thought they were about to be left
alone and the suddenness of this must have left them feeling quite anxious and
fearful. Yet Jesus reminds them that
His leaving is necessary because the Holy Spirit will come upon them. This
promise transforms their fear into expectation. They are not being left alone;
instead, God’s presence will remain with them in a new and deeper way. The Holy
Spirit becomes a source of comfort, wisdom, courage, and faith for all believers.
The passage also highlights the mission that
Jesus gives His followers. He tells them they will be His witnesses “in
Jerusalem, and in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.”
This calling brings hope because it shows that God’s salvation is not just limited
to one group of people, but is meant for the whole wide world. The disciples,
ordinary people with doubts and weaknesses like us, are entrusted with sharing
the message of Christ. Through the Holy Spirit, they are being equipped to
carry out this mission. This reminds Christians today, like us, that God still
works through imperfect people to bring light and hope to others.
A further important message in this passage is
the promise of Christ’s return. As the disciples stand looking into the sky,
the angels tell them that Jesus “will come back in the same way” they
saw Him go into heaven. This promise gives us, and all believers lasting hope.
The Ascension is not the end of the story. Christians now live with the
assurance that Jesus reigns in heaven and will one day return to restore all
things. In times of suffering, uncertainty, or waiting, this promise encourages
believers to remain faithful and hopeful despite so many pressures from
elsewhere in our daily lives. It is
something which we can all cling onto as we live through these times of this chaos
and uncertainty in an unstable world.
The Ascension teaches that hope is found not
only in what Jesus has done, but also in what He continues to do through the
Holy Spirit and what He will do when He comes again. Even though Jesus is no
longer physically present on earth, His Spirit remains active among His people.
Christians are called to live with confidence, trusting that they are never
abandoned and that God’s promises are true and secure. In Hebrews 13:5 we are once more reminded of
God’s words in Deuteronomy 31:6 – “Never will I leave you, never will I
forsake you”
This passage is filled with encouragement.
Jesus leaves His followers with purpose, power, and promise. The Holy Spirit
sustains believers in the present, while the hope of Christ’s return points
toward the future. The Ascension therefore becomes not a farewell marked by
sadness, but a message of enduring hope for all Christians.
Amen. MFB/235/13052026
Sermon at St. Mary’s Parish Church, West Grimstead – 6th Sunday in Easter – Sunday 10th May 2026
Acts
11:22-31; 1 Peter 3:13-22; John 14:15-21
May I speak
in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit and may these words be those of
you Lord, and may those who hear be blessed. Amen
Homily: “What Does Your God
Look Like to You?”
(Based on Acts 11:22–31; 1 Peter 3:13–22; and John 14:15–21)
When you close your eyes and
think of God, what comes to mind?
For some, God looks like majesty and power—an unapproachable light that burns
with holiness. For others, God looks like tenderness: a shepherd, a parent, a
friend who stays close when all else falls away. The truth is, our image of God
is often shaped by our experiences—by how we’ve been loved, how we’ve suffered,
and how we’ve seen grace at work around us. The Scriptures today invite us to
look again at who God truly is—and to allow that image to change us.
1. God Who Looks Like Encouragement and Generosity
In the Acts of the
Apostles, we see the early Church at Antioch coming alive in faith. The
believers there were from many different backgrounds. When the apostles heard
what was happening, they sent Barnabas to encourage them. Barnabas—whose name
means “son of encouragement”—saw the grace of God at work and rejoiced. He
didn’t come to judge or control; he came to strengthen hearts and recognize
goodness.
This is an image of God
worth holding close.
What does your God look like? Perhaps God looks like Barnabas—someone who
arrives not with condemnation but with a joyful heart, helping others find
courage and hope.
Barnabas’s response shows
that God delights in us—not in perfection, but in the growth of faith and love.
God sees the flicker of goodness within us and breathes it brighter. When we
face conflict or uncertainty in our communities, can we be like Barnabas and
reflect that same divine encouragement?
Our God, then, is not
distant. God looks like a companion who notices grace and calls it forth. God
looks like generosity, like open arms welcoming those once seen as outsiders.
God looks like joy in unity.
2. God Who Looks Like Courage and Mercy
St. Peter, writing to a
scattered and suffering Church, tells us not to fear when we do what is right,
even if the world misunderstands us. He reminds us that Christ also suffered
for the sake of righteousness—“once for sins, the righteous for the unrighteous,
to bring us to God.”
Here, God looks like
enduring love. Not triumphant in worldly terms, but steadfast in mercy. Peter’s
words turn our hearts from fear to hope: suffering is not a sign of God’s
absence, but of sharing in Christ’s redeeming work.
To say “this is what my God
looks like” is to say, “My God is not a stranger to pain.” Our God has scars.
Our God stands beside the oppressed, the misunderstood, and the hurting. Our
God looks like Jesus before Pilate—silent, yet victorious in truth.
This image of God challenges
the false idols of control or comfort. It reminds us that holiness isn’t about
escaping the world’s troubles but transforming them from within. So when Peter
asks us to be ready to explain the hope within us, he’s asking for more than
words—he’s calling us to embody the face of a merciful God.
Perhaps in your life, God
has looked like compassion that refuses to give up, or forgiveness that waited
patiently for your return. That divine patience, that merciful courage—that is
the God Peter knew, and the God we are called to mirror.
3. God Who Looks Like Love Alive Within Us
And in John’s Gospel, Jesus
gives the heart of it all: “If you love me, keep my commandments. And I will
ask the Father, and he will give you another Advocate, to be with you forever.”
Here we see the deepest
truth about God’s appearance—it is love made visible in love. The God of Jesus
Christ is not confined to heaven or to history. God dwells within us through
the Holy Spirit—the Advocate, the Comforter, the Spirit of truth.
What does that mean for how
we imagine God?
It means God looks like love that abides. God looks like someone who refuses to
leave us orphaned. God is the light that quietly fills the soul when we pray,
the peace that steadies us when all else shakes.
In a world where so many
gods are made of power and performance, our God looks different. Our God looks
like relationship. A God who calls us friends, who washes feet, who breathes
peace. Not a God who demands fear, but a God who invites intimacy.
If we truly believe this,
our lives become living icons of what we adore. The way we speak, forgive, and
serve becomes the reflection of what our God looks like to us. If our God is
kind, we show kindness. If our God is faithful, we stay faithful. If our God is
love, then love is what must be seen in us.
4. Seeing and Showing This God Today
So, what does your God look
like today?
If you’re carrying grief, God may look like the one who weeps beside you.
If you’re carrying guilt, God may look like the one who runs to embrace you.
If you’re carrying hope, God may look like the smile of someone who believes in
you.
And for others, perhaps you
will be the face of God today—the gentle word, the patient presence, the
helping hand. You may be the Barnabas someone needs. The courage of Peter
someone admires. The promise of John’s Jesus someone clings to.
Because God has chosen to
dwell in us, all of us together reveal what God looks like. No one’s vision is
complete alone. In our diversity as believers—young and old, joyful and weary,
certain and questioning—God’s face shines through in countless ways.
The Church in Antioch grew
strong not because everyone looked the same or thought the same, but because
God’s Spirit was alive in each believer. When the world sees such love among
us, when it sees encouragement instead of envy, mercy instead of judgment, and
faith instead of fear, then the world sees what our God truly looks like.
Conclusion
So today, perhaps the
question is not only “What does your God look like to you?”
It’s also, “When others look at you, what does your God look like through you?”
May the Spirit of truth
shape our hearts to reflect the God we know in Christ—
the God who encourages like Barnabas,
who suffers with mercy like Jesus,
and who abides within us as love unending.
Amen. MFB/234/090520026
Sermon at All Saints’ Parish Church, Farley – 5th Sunday in Easter – Sunday 3rd May 2026
Acts 7:55-60; 1 Peter 2:2-10; John
14:1-14
May I
speak in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit and may these words be
those of you Lord, and may those who hear be blessed. Amen.
Our three readings this morning are all connected under the shadow of one single sustaining truth – as our hymn we have just sung puts it so clearly – Christ is our cornerstone, on him alone we build.
Amen MFB/233/30042026
Sermon at St. Mary’s Church Parish Church, West Dean – 3rd Sunday in Lent – Sunday 8th March 2026
John 4 : 1-42
The
Samaritan Woman at the Well in Sychar.
A
Meditative Reflection based on John 4:6-10 (Soul Sisters, Edwina Gateley
p65)
I waited
for all the other women to return from the well – chattering and laughing,
carelessly spilling drops of their precious water as they balanced their jugs
on sloping shoulders. They walked
together – they always do – clustering around a story, a bit of news, some
whispering gossip, about me, perhaps. Yes – most probably about me.
Again, at
sunset, the day’s heat cooled, and jugs long emptied, they set out, sharing
stories and laughing, sometimes weeping and consoling. For this is woman-time.
I must go
alone at noon. When the village eats and
rests behind closed doors I open mine, and furtive, like my clients, I slip
into the light and heat alone. Balancing my jug, I move swiftly not daring a
slow or leisured pace …
Close to
the well I stop, scarce believing what I see – a man resting there in woman’s
sacred space. I cannot hide, nor return
with an empty jug. But I know I will be condemned … by this brief encounter. I must not speak. It is not my place. I have sinned enough.
But it is
not I who breaks the rules – the man, a Jew, dares to speak to me! Does he not know the law? Does he not know?
Yet, softly, he speaks to me.
“Water,
give me water”
He – a man
– a Jew –
Asking me
for water! I can scarce hide my
shock. Ah, but no one has ever looked
upon me so tenderly!
I must
tell him, it is not done, that he should speak to me – but he does.
He begins
to tell me strange things about “Living Water” – but he has no bucket – how can
he give water – he offers water of a different kind, welling up within, an
eternal spring that would never dry up.
From my
deep place of longing, I cry out aloud – “Ah, give it to me”
A short
extempore homily (summarised below) followed this passage reminding us that Jesus went out of his way to
travel through Samaria (occupied by people who had a mutual hatred of Jews) at
a time of the day when he would meet up with this woman, an outcast within her
own society – in fact a meeting of two outcasts as far as the religious
Samaritans were concerned – a Jew and a woman of dubious morality.
The whole of
the reading – John 4:1-42 - reminds us that as Christians we are expected to
love all our fellow humans even those who are not like ourselves as well as
avoiding prejudice and judgement against those who are different, and to ask
ourselves - have we treated people unlike ourselves differently and less
favourably in our own lives? Do we still
do so?
In today’s
world, we are seeing increasingly right-wing leaders and politicians exercising
the kind of prejudices which Jesus, literally, went out of his way to
stop. An increasingly worrying trend is
the rise of “Christian Nationalism” which seeks to use, or rather abuse
Christianity as a weapon against those it seeks to persecute, for political
gain or maintenance, in the name of restoring Christian principles in our
multicultural society.
As true
Christians, followers of Jesus Christ, we are instructed by him to continue to
spread the true gospel of peace and love, not hatred and war.
Amen MFB/232/08032026
Sermon at All Saints’ Church, Farley – 2nd Sunday before Lent – Sunday 8th February 2026
Matthew 6:25-34
Why
Worry?”
“Therefore I
tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about
your body, what you will wear… Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour
to your life?”
— Matthew 6:25, 27
Why Fear?
And as for
worry’s cousin “fear”, a former President of the United States once said “The
only thing we have to fear is fear itself” – President Franklin Roosevelt.
I have just
returned from a 14 nights’ cruise to the western Mediterranean, by way of the
Bay of Biscay, with a colleague who was most fearful about the stability of the
ship on the high seas and was constantly worrying about the prospect of sailing
through heavy seas and being seasick. In fact, as if he was being tested, we
did indeed encounter 9-metre waves in the Atlantic yet he was absolutely fine
throughout. His worries and fear were totally unnecessary and probably spoiled
some of the excitement of being on his first cruise.
Worry is one
of the most common human experiences. It doesn’t matter who you are, how strong
your faith is, or how well your life seems to be going—worry finds us all. We
worry about money. We worry about health. We worry about our children, our
future, our past, our relationships, our work, and sometimes things we can’t
even name. Worry has a way of sneaking in quietly and then settling down as if
it belongs.
And into that
very human condition, Jesus speaks some of the most challenging—and
comforting—words in we will find in the Bible - “Do not worry.”
At first,
that can sound unrealistic, even dismissive. “Do not worry?” we think. “Have
you seen the world we’re living in?” But Jesus is not offering a shallow slogan
or a denial of reality. He is offering a radical reorientation of how we see
life, God, and ourselves.
Jesus begins
by addressing the basics: food, drink, clothing—the necessities of life. These
were not small concerns in the first century. For many people, daily survival
was uncertain. Yet Jesus says, “Is not life more than food, and the body
more than clothes?” In other words, if God has given us life itself, should
we really believe He will abandon u when it comes to sustaining that life?
To make His
point, Jesus tells us to look around. Look at the birds of the air. They do not
sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet, he says, your heavenly Father
feeds them. Look at the lilies of the field. They do not labour or spin, yet
even Solomon in all his splendour was not dressed like one of these.
Jesus is
inviting us to notice something we often forget: creation itself is a testimony
to God’s care. The birds are not lazy; they still search for food. The flowers
still grow according to their nature. But they are not consumed by anxiety
about tomorrow. They live within the care of the One who made them.
Then Jesus
asks a piercing question: “Are you not much more valuable than they?”
This is where
worry often reveals its deeper issue. Worry is not just about circumstances; it
is about trust. When we worry excessively, we are not simply acknowledging that
life is uncertain—we are quietly assuming that we are alone in that
uncertainty.
There’s an
old saying sailors use when things go wrong: “Worse things happen at sea”, probably
a phrase which was very much in the mind of my travelling companion on that
recent cruise voyage. However, it’s a way of putting trouble into
perspective. Yes, this is hard. Yes, this is unpleasant. But it is not the end
of the world. That phrase carries a kind of grounded wisdom. It reminds us that
difficulty is part of life, but difficulty is not the final word.
Jesus says
something similar when He reminds us that worrying does not actually help. “Can
any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?” The answer, of
course, is no. If anything, worry shortens life, drains joy, clouds judgment,
and steals peace.
It’s often
said—and studies back this up—that about 98% of the things we worry about never
actually happen. Think about that for a moment. Almost everything that keeps us
awake at night, knots our stomachs, and dominates our thoughts never comes to
pass; and even when difficult things do happen, they rarely happen in the way
we imagined. We therefore end up suffering twice: once in our imagination and
once, maybe, in reality.
Worry, then,
is a terrible investment. It costs us a great deal and returns nothing.
But Jesus
doesn’t just tell us to stop worrying; He tells us why we can stop
worrying. “Your heavenly Father knows that you need all of these things.”
God is not ignorant of our needs. He is not distant. He is not indifferent. The
same God who clothes the grass of the field—which is here today and gone
tomorrow—knows your name, your fears, your needs, and your future.
This is where
faith comes in—not faith as wishful thinking, but faith as trust in a faithful
God. Jesus says, “Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and
all these things will be given to you as well.”
Notice what
He does not say. He does not say, “Ignore your responsibilities.” He does not
say, “Pretend problems don’t exist.” He says, “Put first things first.” Make
God the centre, not the margins. Let your life be oriented around His kingdom
rather than your fears.
When we put
our faith in God through Jesus, we are not promised a worry-free life—but we
are promised a life that is not ruled by worry. Through Jesus, we come to know
God not as a distant power, but as a loving Father. At the cross, we see just
how far God is willing to go for us. If God did not spare His own Son, do we
really believe He will abandon us in the details of daily life?
Faith does
not remove tomorrow’s challenges, but it does remove tomorrow’s weight from
today. Jesus ends this passage by saying, “Therefore do not worry about
tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of
its own.” That is not pessimism; it is realism paired with hope. Jesus
acknowledges that each day has trouble—but He also implies that each day has
sufficient grace too.
We are called
to live one day at a time, trusting God one step at a time. Worry pulls us into
a future we cannot control. Faith anchors us in the present, where God’s grace
is always available.
So when worry
rises—and it will—perhaps we can remember a few simple truths. Worse things
happen at sea, and yet people survive storms they never thought they could.
Most of what we fear will never happen. And the God who holds the universe
together has promised to hold us as well.
Worry says,
“What if?”
Faith says, “Even if.”
Even if
things don’t go as planned.
Even if the road is harder than expected.
Even if answers don’t come right away.
Even if—God
is still God. And we are still His beloved children.
May we hear
Jesus’ words not as a rebuke, but as an invitation. An invitation to lay down
burdens we were never meant to carry. An invitation to trust the One who knows
what we need before we ask. An invitation to live not in fear of tomorrow, but
in confidence in God today.
Amen MFB/231/05022026
